Great Creativity

Lawful creative,

I’ll take it, I’ll make it my own!

What’s there to write, if

All words are sacred, and music is danced to alone?

I once saw a garden—not growing, but lowing,

By providence only alive.

Creatively pruning, and sweetly fine-tuning,

New plants from clippings contrive.

Twice at a festival I watched a film—

Of shoulders and giants, the pictures were made.

But cinema, too, when too long in kiln,

Crumbles like bleached, white clay.

Three times ‘cross hist’ry,

And days yet to come:

Kleptic hands greet me—

Plunder, steal, run.

But what of my own works

And where thence they stand?

Feebly I face my hurts—

I'm a raft, circling the artists' great land.